


there's always room here for the lonely

by leatherandlace



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, They deserved better, neon moon by kacey musgraves, this made me really sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-02
Updated: 2019-08-02
Packaged: 2020-07-29 14:21:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20083639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leatherandlace/pseuds/leatherandlace
Summary: nat and maria go to the same bar, five years apart, to mourn each other.





	there's always room here for the lonely

**Author's Note:**

> this is inspired by neon moon by kacey musgraves, a terribly sad song that @aprosebyanyothername told me about, and it has clearly made me sad.
> 
> i have, like, three smut fics coming, so i'm (mostly) not even sorry about this.
> 
> follow me on my stan twitter: @pinkjacquelyn

_ i. _

  
  


It was unbearable, the loneliness. The tracing the sheets they used to lay in, corners of picture frames holding both their smiling faces, burying her nose in sweaters that maybe still smelled like her. Frantically calling her number to get the voicemail when she thought she forgot the sound of her voice, hot tears slipping before she can even begin to think about keeping it together. Smashing the mirror in the hallway because how dare it remind her of getting ready for parties and kissing outside their bedroom door and living together, as one,  _ alive _ .

Maria was everywhere,  _ everywhere _ , in every corner of their apartment, in every restaurant she had taken her, in all the brunettes she’d see, in every pair of blue eyes. 

Natasha shook with a stony anxiety, desperately closing her eyes and trying to sleep. She should be used to this, the absence of someone else--she’d spent most of her life alone, most of her life in a bed by herself. But, god, it was fucking impossible to sleep without Maria. It had been an entire year, and still whenever she drifted off there was a stutter in her heartbeat when she moved to hug someone who wasn’t there. The moment of searching, and then remembering. It hit her hard every time, stole her breath, sent her into a panic. 

There had been one night where she just wanted to up and leave, to pack a bag and disappear, leave their apartment and this life and live in the shadows until she died from whatever hit her over the head first. 

But there was Tony, and Pepper, and Morgan, and everyone else depending on her, who needed her. 

Maria wouldn’t want her to do that, anyway. 

And what would happen to their apartment? To Maria’s guitar in the living room, out of tune from a year of collecting dust.

(She had picked it up a month ago, hoping the sound of strumming the strings would remind her of those late nights where Maria would play her soft music, and Nat would sing along, knees tucked into her chest, watching Maria’s smile as Nat would start to hum. The guitar was out of tune when she finally plucked one of the strings, the sound jarring and ugly, just another reminder of the loss).

What would happen to all of these frames on the walls, all the pictures Nat hung up to surprise Maria that one time? What would happen to Maria’s boots still stacked up near the wall, little collections of dust on the soles? And what would happen to Maria’s apron she had hung up on the cupboard, untouched. What would happen to Maria’s clothes in the closet, dark leather jackets and turtlenecks and hoodies that Nat dared not disturb.

(Natasha did have two things she had taken off the rack. The first a hoodie she had frantically put on to feel as if Maria were there in the first week following the Snap. She had sobbed harder than she ever had, curled up in the hoodie, nose tucked into the fabric and hoping it would bring her back. The next morning, she couldn’t smell Maria on the hoodie, and cursed herself for ruining one of the only things she had left. 

The second was a T-shirt she had carefully taken off of its hanger, only a week ago. She sat on the edge of her bed with shaking hands, bringing up the shirt to her nose and inhaling. It was a little dusty, a little stale, but it still smelled like Maria, and the tightness in her chest dissipated marginally before hitting her again full force. She put it under Maria’s pillow.)

Nat stared at the ceiling, tamping down the image of Maria, because after imagining Maria came the image of her  _ not  _ being there, the palpable absence beside her, only one person breathing in the room, only one heartbeat. 

She looked at the clock.  _ 10:03PM.  _ Early enough to go out, to pretend like it wasn’t a lonely night but rather just an uneventful one.

Nat ended up at a bar a few streets down, one she and Maria used to go on nights like this, lazy and tired and only looking for a few drinks and some music before they collapsed into bed together. She grabbed a table for two in the back, ordering whatever she saw first and praying no one approached her. There was a window next to the table and Nat leaned against it, the glass cooling her forehead as she stared at the moon, full and bright.

She hated this table.

Nat could almost feel the brush of Maria’s hands on her hip as they slid into the booth together, could see Maria’s smile as Nat kissed her cheek, could hear Maria’s laugh, the clink of her drink. If she closed her eyes tightly enough, the noise of the bar could just be Maria ordering them drinks, could be Maria making small talk with the bartender, bringing them back their drinks with a flirty kick to her shins under the table. The condensation from her glass would always be so cold when she tucked a strand of hair behind Nat’s ear, and Nat weakly wiped her fingers on the side of her glass to mirror the action herself, the panic in her chest growing as each song started and ended and Maria wasn’t there to complain about the music choices. Every sad song reminded her of Maria, a cocktail of misery that drummed into Nat’s brain with every beat.

Maria always offered to get up to fill her drinks, and Nat would watch her at the bar, leaning confidently as a few lucky souls around her got to hear her order their drinks and laugh along with whatever anyone was saying. If she squinted her eyes, that one tall woman with brown hair could maybe be Maria. She watched for a moment, her eyes closed just enough so that the outline of whoever it was looked sort of tall and sort of lean and sort of Maria. The woman tipped her drink up to take a sip, something bright and fruity looking that Maria would never order, but Nat watched anyway. She had to look away after a moment, though, when the woman leaned in to kiss her boyfriend, and the illusion shattered before Nat could find any comfort in it. 

Nat turned her head back to the window, tears pricking behind her eyes, wishing she couldn’t see Maria in the shadows of every room if she wouldn’t just be there in reality. 

The bar was always so loud, and Maria would always have to move closer to Nat to carry on a conversation, breath hot against her cheek. She’d always touch Nat’s hair, look at her pointedly over her drink, dart her eyes to Nat’s lips, never subtle, always brazen, always so strong and confident, always in love.

Nat couldn’t pay the check fast enough, pushing out of the bar and into the moonlight and tepid summer air. 

She didn’t want to imagine Maria’s hand in hers, walking back to the apartment a little tipsy but with purpose, her other hand on Nat’s waist and tracing her hip bones with that  _ smile _ . She didn’t want to hear Maria’s voice low in her ear, didn’t want to feel the ghost of the feeling of safety and comfort. She wanted it to  _ go away _ , she didn’t want to feel it anymore. 

Maria seemed to chase her, not close enough for any comfort but not far enough away to give Nat space. It was too much, it wasn’t enough. It hurt.

It  _ hurt _ .

Nat walked back to the apartment alone, put the keys in the lock alone, closed the door behind her alone, rested her forehead against it alone. Maria wasn’t there to kiss her as she opened the door, wasn’t there to give her a look as she closed it behind her, wasn’t there to pull her into bed or onto the couch to watch a movie or into the kitchen for some wine, wasn’t  _ there _ . 

So she walked to her ( _ their _ ) bed alone, pulling off her jeans and throwing them in the hamper before she carefully crawled into bed. Nat slid her hand under Maria’s pillow, feeling for the shirt she had stuffed under it. She didn’t want to get tears on it, but the smell of Maria was faint enough that she had to press her nose into it. The moonlight streamed through the window, and Nat was hit with the memory of watching Maria drift off to sleep with the beams on her nose, so soft and beautiful and  _ safe _ . 

Nat clutched at the shirt, curling her hands into it, praying she’d fall asleep before she could think of anything else, could imagine anything else. 

Normally she didn’t like lying to herself, didn’t like telling herself that maybe things could change, that maybe Maria could come back. But maybe, just for tonight, she could pretend there was hope. 

Just for tonight.

  
  


_ ii. _

  
  


Maria wondered why she was even brought back if it was to a world without Nat.

She slipped into the booth, the one she and Nat would always go to, only a few streets from their apartment. She couldn’t bear to sit there for more than ten minutes, too overwhelmed with the absence of Natasha to sit there and drink and listen to all of the dumb music this bar always played. 

When she got home for another night of sleeping alone, her pillow fell off the bed. Maria looked down at the T-shirt that was under it with a tear rolling down her cheek, not noticing it was there until then.

She could imagine Nat laying here, crying and alone, holding her shirt, and she couldn’t hold in her own tears. It hurt so much to think of Nat alone, maybe hurt even more than feeling alone herself. The apartment was like a story of the past five years--a missing mirror from the hallway, probably from a burst of anger. Almost empty cupboards, the one behind Maria’s apron unopened. Was it so that she didn’t ruin it? She could see her guitar had been picked up, one of the strings looser than the others, and Maria tuned it until it sounded right. 

  
  


Maria brushed her hand on Nat’s side of the bed, careful to avoid that one strand of red hair with a blonde end that had been left behind on Nat’s pillow. She had seen pictures of Nat with her new hair, and she wanted more than anything to run her hand through it, see where it changed color, feeling how long it would be in her fingers. 

Maria got into bed, the moonlight through the window hitting her nose and making her shift out of its beams uncomfortably. 

  
  


Maria looked up at the ceiling, took a shaky breath, and closed her eyes. There was no hoping. Only the loneliness.


End file.
